


Instructions on Proper Care of Mortals and Discussions of Love

by Diary



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bars and Pubs, Conversations, Drinking & Talking, Mad Sweeney (American Gods) Being in Love with Laura Moon, Minor The Jinn | Ifrit/Salim (American Gods), POV The Jinn | Ifrit (American Gods)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28434897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diary/pseuds/Diary
Summary: Vaguely AU. An ifrit and a leprechaun drink together in an otherwise empty bar. Complete.
Kudos: 7





	Instructions on Proper Care of Mortals and Discussions of Love

For all he doesn’t particularly like Mad Sweeney, he has more use for him than most of those such as them he comes across, for Mad Sweeney is someone he can reasonably trust. Not to do him no harm, no, but to be honest or simply impulsive. The leprechaun weaves no great lies, enacts no great deceptions.

They’re in an otherwise empty bar.

“Where’s your-”

Knowing what sentiments Sweeney is about to express, he interrupts, “He’s sleeping.”

Salim doesn’t fear Mad Sweeney enough, and much as he tries not to let it, this bothers him.

“Huh.” Going behind the bar, Sweeney finds some alcohol he imagines is cheap, full of irritating chemicals, and runs straight-through. Long, long ago, alcohol was deep, rich, and the subtle taste of dirt, mud, and leftover stems only enriched the slow warmness that took time to leave the body. It left red eyes and muddled brains grasping for a clearing of fuzzy, foamy thoughts, but often, throats weren’t strained from vomiting, and piss wasn’t thin, prickly streaks that the body shuddered while trying to press more out.

“Where’s Mrs Moon?”

Scoffing, Sweeney orders, “Don’t call her that.”

He almost responds, Why? That’s her name, isn’t it?

Names have never been particularly important to him. Allah is more-or-less the same as the other gods, he rarely remembers the names of his fares, and for all he has a name beyond ‘jinn’ and ‘ifrit’, he’s never had the same protectiveness of it many, gods, mortals, and others alike, do theirs. People will remember or forget him, and the ones who will remember will eventually die.

“Here’s some old-fashioned root beer. Want some lemonade to go with it?”

Surprised and excited, saying, “That sounds good,” he starts to get up.

“I’ll make it,” Sweeney says with a roll of his eyes.

There’s always a price with leprechauns, but he imagines this one won’t be too high.

“Why are you backing Wednesday, ifrit?”

“I owe him a debt.”

“Bollocks. Go deeper. The old gods called for your little mortal to be other than he is. It’s the new gods who encourage namby-pansy free-love and acceptance bullshit.”

“We both know better, leprechaun. Mortals wrote edicts condemning men with men, women with women, and humans born with a heart and head not matching their physical body. Few gods have ever particularly cared. Including the one I once called mine. Humans will always condemn one another. One reason goes out of style, another takes its place for the next few thousand years.”

Sweeney sets the drink in front of him, and taking a sip, he finds his tongue responding to the pleasant, soothing taste.

“I hold loyalty to fulfilling my debt, not to him or his ideals. The new gods aren’t any better or worse.”

The portrayal of his kind as servants to humans, zany and often cuddly or leashed despite great power and/or filled with fantatical devotion, is extremely irksome, but these portrayals can only come true if embraced. There is no one true god, and none of the gods are great. Prophets are a dime-a-dozen.

If not for his debt to Wednesday, he wouldn’t feel the need to fight a war. There are easier ways to be as one is despite widespread belief; Odin has simply always been too dramatic, from one of the very first who sacrificed his own eye to the ones who have openly joined the new gods to the character a child watched on a tablet back when he was still driving a cab.

“Yeah.” Sweeney sits down with glumness coating him. “I owe a debt, too. Not just to him. To that quirm of a dead wife. Careful you don’t end up owing Salim one. It’s easier to get caught than one might think.”

“He could do nothing for me that isn’t easily repaid.”

Salim had allowed him a warm body to stick his own body into, a hot shower beforehand, a soft bed afterwards, but Salim had wanted sex without fear, shame, and great rush. The trade between them had been equitable.

Still, despite not being able to do much, Salim had listened sympathetically to his ranting about his shit life, had given him some extra money beyond the cab fare, a more generous tip than most of those who tipped did.

And so, he’d done what little he could to help with Salim’s own shit life.

“You really didn’t expect him to try to find you?”

“No.” Taking a deep drink, he doesn’t quite manage to keep his sigh in. “I didn’t expect him to be greedy.”

Salim isn’t, but it’s the best word he has to describe humans who want more than what’s given. Some humans will be grateful when they know they were given a gift by a god or ifrit or leprechaun, and some will decide they want even more. Usually, though, what they want is riches or power or glory, not-

“He fancies himself in love.”

“Yes. ‘Fancy’ is a good word. Mortals, they don’t know what true, genuine, love is. He does not know me.”

Salim _wants_ to, but it’s not possible. He could tell everything he remembers about his life to Salim, Salim could see him at his best and worst, and still, what and who he is, it’s something Salim could never truly comprehend.

“Which, of course,” Sweeney sardonically says, “means you can’t love him back.”

He’s not sure where the sarcasm lies, but he agrees, “Yes. The only way an ifrit can love a human is if they bow to them, and that is one commandment I will never waver on refusing to obey.”

It’s not true love, then, he’s always thought, but more importantly, the moment an ifrit decides to follow that commandment is the moment they accept the betrayal of the god who made them as acceptable.

Sex doesn’t have to be about power, despite what many humans believe. Salim sunk to his knees, almost pathetically thankful for the little he believed he was about to be allowed. And later, he who has never bowed to any king or queen, he eased himself down onto sore knees, and Salim emptying himself into his mouth, that didn’t make him any less of a heretic than he’s been for so many years.

He will never bow to any human.

Sitting down next to him, Sweeney asks, “Why do you let him follow you around, then?”

The smell of the alcohol confirms it’s a pathetic mixture.

“Right now, it’s easier. He could cause so much trouble for me and for fulfilling my debt if he’s left to his own devices. At least, while he believes there’s a chance of a happily ever after, he listens to me.”

More than this, however, he’s just not sure how to stop Salim. The annoying humans in the past he’s had to deal with, Salim is nothing like them, or they were nothing like Salim.

“Humans are fickle,” he adds. “He’ll get tired or terrified or merely smarter soon enough.”

Marriage, true marriage, is again possible for those such as Salim, but urging Salim to find a human man, to find a good trade or job, to build a life, well, unless he can do more than urge, there’s little point in urging. And right now, in the middle of a war, he can’t do that.

He once removed all traces of himself from a human’s memory, but if he did that to Salim, Salim might end up in the same place Salim was when they first met.

Salim is owed more than that, better.

“You could kill him.”

“That is not an option.” He doesn’t believe Sweeney would, but he must add, “For you or anyone else. I’ve made him a promise of safety for as long as we travel together, and if I cannot fulfil this promise, I will react badly to those who played a part in it being broken.”

Laughing, Sweeney takes a swig of the foul drink. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, oh great genie. Truth is, he’s more tolerable than most. Not much of a challenge, though. Now, dead wife, she’s interesting.”

A mentally ill human who’s found herself stuck between life and death, he doesn’t see what’s particularly interesting about her. Even if her brain were healthy, he imagines she’d still be an adulteress or, better but still unappealing, one who treats sex with no real reverence.

He doesn’t condemn those people, but he’s never quite trusted them. Animals mindlessly have sex the way they eat, shit, and sleep, as do some gods. Humans, though, some of them, they only share it with those special, an act of, if not love, devotion and respect and trust.

In his case, there’ve been a few times he’s had it with those he had no real feelings for, but generally, he’s liked those he’s been with and known they’d truly appreciate the way his body made theirs feel.

“You do like him,” Sweeney continues. “Why?”

“The same reason you like her, it seems. He’s interesting. How he sees things, it can be frustrating, but I’ve met few who have such an outlook. His ideas and opinions are often stimulating. And there’s no hidden spots for you to poke within me when it comes to my enjoyment of sex with him. He’s a talented lover. I haven’t had this much sex on such a regular basis in a very long time.”

Grimacing, Sweeney responds, “Or ever.”

“I’m older than humanity, Mad Sweeney the Leprechaun. Humans didn’t create me. And when humanity ends, and with them, you and those all like you, created by their beliefs, their stories, I wager I’ll have bedded more people than you’ve ever truly known.”

Letting out a sound that’s a mixture of a scoff and chuckle, Sweeney downs the rest of his glass. “Want some more lemonade mixed with root beer?”

“Yes, please.”

Laughing more fully, taking his glass, Sweeney gets up.

After fixing it, Sweeney sits down, and pushing it over, his quiet words fill the bar, “I’m going to die soon.”

Looking over, he sees the absolute seriousness in Sweeney’s body.

“Been having dreams. I can feel it approaching. Grimnir, Wednesday, Odin, Wotan, whatever the,” it occurs to him this term on Sweeney’s lips is dripping with more disdain than even those who truly hate the act can often manage to convey, “he calls himself or others call him, he’ll be part of it. Mark my words. He killed Laura, he’s going to kill her precious Shadow, and he’ll have a part in my death.”

“And so, kill him,” he suggests. “My debt to him doesn’t involve keeping him alive.”

A bitter laugh is Sweeney’s response. “I don’t think I can. Still, I’ll remember her when it happens, I know that much. What about you? Think your Salim will remember you as he’s dying? If you manage to live past humanity, and I’m not so sure you will, you miserable sack of shit, will you remember this one doe-eyed man who insisted on praying all the time and loved sucking your cock almost as much as he loved the blasted praying?”

“I don’t know.” The pleasant taste of the drink does nothing against the sudden coldness he feels inside.

There’s a sudden glint of gold. “Here.”

He catches the coin.

“For Salim. It’ll do more to protect him than you can. Give him a bit of luck.”

He’s not sure how to express his gratitude.

“Feed and water him, genie. Try to make sure he gets three proper meals a day, make sure he drinks plenty of water or something besides alcohol during the day. And as for sleeping, that eight hours thing is rubbish, even most humans accept that, but here’s some advice: Of course, you’ll want to keep him bundled up and pressed close during the winter, but on days hotter than a devil’s ball sac, try to lie near him.”

“You make it sound as if he’ll be around for long enough for there to be an actual need to do all this. Either I die in this war, or I repay my debt quickly. Then, I’ll figure out how to get him to stop following me.”

Sweeney’s laughter is almost braying. “Oh, I hope I don’t die soon, ifrit. I can imagine the look on your face when you realise some things, when someone reminds you of these things you were so damned sure of. He’ll be around until one of you dies. Or both. And seeing that would have nothing on imagining it.”

Stretching, Sweeney says, “Well, enough of this now. I have better things to do than sit with you, drinking wine and scotch you can’t appreciate.”

Watching Sweeney walking to the door, he knows what he needs to do. “Mad Sweeney.”

Stopping, Sweeney looks back.

Feeling the coin in his fingers and hands, he offers, “Laura Moon, if you do die soon, I would-”

“No.” Leaning against a wall, Sweeney shakes his head. “There’s no need. Unlike Salim, she’s not one who needs protection. Life, to hear things she doesn’t want to, someone who sees her, not some idea they have of her, that’s what she needs.”

“But she’ll always be a reckless bitch, stupid in choosing her battles, and I’m sure she’ll keep paying for it plenty, but she can handle it. There might be some strength to Salim, but bruising hurts him far more than it ever has and ever will hurt her. I’m going to try my best to get her resurrected all proper right and get my coin back, but if I don’t in time, then, I’ll die believing somehow, some way, she’ll manage to get what she needs. That’s the best I can do for her.”

Belief.

It made Sweeney, and arguably, if he’s unflinchingly honest, it’s likely kept himself from going the way of certain gods.

Sweeney believes him in love with Salim, he realises.

If Sweeney said he wasn’t in love with Laura Moon, then, just as Sweeney wrongly disbelieves him, he’d rightfully disbelieve Sweeney.

He supposes there are worse than a faithless mortal a leprechaun could fall for. They might make a good pair, if Sweeney doesn’t die soon.

“Thank you for the coin.”

“Keep Salim from thanking me, and we’ll call it done.”

Putting on his cap, Sweeney leaves.


End file.
